“I do,” said Elizabeth. “Shall I go up and see the bird?”
“I haven’t done the room yet,” said Mrs. Petch.
“Then I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to fetch him down,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Petch went slowly upstairs, creaking remonstrance at every step, and Elizabeth whispered to Andy—
“I’m convinced that William is either dead or dying, and Mrs. Petch is trying to hide it from us. Don’t you think so?”
Lovely to have her appeal to him, even about a bird with an unpleasant character. Andy thrilled as he responded baldly, “Seems so.”
But, contrary to all expectations, William appeared to be in excellent health and feather; he looked better, in fact, than he had done for a long time. Elizabeth felt ashamed of having suspected the poor woman.
“William,” she murmured. “Poor old William!” and held out a finger. “Is that tea ready? Is that tea ready?”
But William, for the first time since Elizabeth had known him, failed to echo that familiar remark. He refused to whistle, to draw corks, to cry “Cat”—to do anything at all that he had been in the habit of doing for the past twenty years.
“That’s it!” said Mrs. Petch desperately. “I daren’t tell you. I knew Mrs. Atterton would think we’d been neglecting him, and we never have. He’s lost his vocaberlery. He can only make a hoarse shriek.”